Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by Doug Stanhope
Foreword © 2017 by Drew Pinsky, MD
All photos courtesy Doug Stanhope
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Da Capo Press
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
www.dacapopress.com
@DaCapoPress; @DaCapoPR
First Edition: November 2017
Published by Da Capo Press, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Editorial production by Christine Marra, Marrathon Production Services. www.marrathoneditorial.org
Book design by Jane Raese
Set in 11-point Avance
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-0-306-82574-3 (hardcover), ISBN 978-0-306-82575-0 (ebook)
E3-20171020-JV-NF
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Foreword by Drew Pinsky, M.D.
Introduction
Funny for Nothing
A Sunday That Sucked, April 18, 1993
Get All the Stage Time You Can
Party Crashing
Fucking the Waitstaff
Comedy Still Isn’t Pretty
You Are Never Too Ugly for Gay Phone Sex
If Someone Is a Cunt to You, Hold It in Your Heart for Life
Never Shy Away from a Chance at a Good Story
Pranking the Media
Hookers
Koot’s
Nothing to See Here
The Secret to His Success
Million-Dollar Ideas
And Then You Are the Dick
Getting Away from It All
Fake It until You Make It
Iceland, the Exception to the Rule
Breakdown Lane
The Grass Is Always Browner
Browner Pastures
Actual Porn
Still, Nobody Knows You
Thank You for Your Feedback. Your Opinion Is Very Important to Us.
Sucking Abroad
Just for Spite: A Festival
The Dying of a Last Breed
The 2012 UK Tour: Partying Like a Rock Star, Losing Money Like a Rapper
Florida Sex Offenders, Part One
Florida Sex Offenders, Part Two
Florida Sex Offenders, Part Three: Treasure Island
Wrong Again
Killer Termites
The Kindness of Strangers
Reality or Otherwise
The Opening Act Should Always Be Fucked With. Take It Well. It Means That You Are One of the Group
Seriously Famous
Name Droppings
Bourbon Legends
The Internet Is Forever
Retarded
Fame Retardant
Photos
Acknowledgments
Discover More Doug Stanhope
Also By Doug Stanhope
Index
Dedicated to Mark and Suzie Bazzell
and All the King’s Horses and All the King’s Men
who helped put Bingo back together again.
FOREWORD
My first thought when Stanhope asked me to create a foreword to his book was that there must be a mistake. I did indeed ask if he was punking me. That is true—that happened. My reaction must have caught his attention as well, as he included that moment in his story though I still don’t know if he is offended or proud of it. After all, he was the same guy who stood on stage and ruthlessly busted my balls without ever having met me! But that was all in our past. I then felt sort of honored. He and I had crafted a friendship across some pretty shitty seas. (If you wish to understand how our friendship blossomed you must read on.) He assured me he was not punking me. Once I realized he was serious I thought, “Well, once he gets the balls, he’ll ask his friend Depp and I’ll be off the hook.” Evidently he never developed the huevos to do it, so here I am.
Having studied his opus carefully, I will tell you this is actually a practical parenting guide. I mean, what child does not need the practical wisdom for managing the vicissitudes of entering adulthood with sage advice such as being sure to buy a love seat rather than a couch, so your loser buddies feel so uncomfortable when they flop at your pad that they do not stay, or learning the fact that you can avoid a flight-change fee if you manage to get kicked off the plane for excessive intoxication. And of course every child should understand that threesomes are awkward and weird unless you are completely intoxicated to the point you can barely function sexually and, finally, that you too can bullshit your way onto a talk show if your story is good enough.
Aside from the practical wisdom Doug dispenses, I want you, the reader, to understand something else. Doug has written a story that Hunter S. Thompson would wish he could have lived. This is, I shit you not, a modern story for the ages. Now let me be clear. This is not a story of healthy behavior and surely not a story written by a healthy person. But this is a human story and it is honest and it is somehow refreshing. I love people, warts and all. I also like to help people to change when they want help changing. That does not mean I don’t love them just as much when they don’t want my help and do not wish to change, or are struggling with what it means to be a human being. Doug embraces his human-ness; he celebrates his pathologies and his flaws, terrible choices and their consequences. I don’t think he ever really hurts anyone but himself along the way. Mind you, you don’t want to be in his crosshairs. Been there—it doesn’t feel good. I don’t recommend it. But Doug’s vulnerability, in the midst of these extraordinary situations you will read about, connects to us on a familiar level. I love Doug for his humanity and, like everyone else, I love him for his comedy. If you are a fan this read will be time well spent. You will feel like you have been on vacation with Doug Stanhope. And although I enjoyed the front-row seat in the adventure that is Doug’s life, I found myself more than once worried about my friend’s survival.
One day Doug may need or have to change. Maybe one day he will look back on some of these experiences with regret or remorse. But I don’t think he will ever regret having lived a life fully lived. And we will not regret the stories and entertainment he has given us. As he says, he has in fact done a lot, if he could just remember it.
So now the warning. Do not follow any of the practical wisdom you cull from this book. Do not consider this a template for how to live your life. This book should also convince you that if you see Stanhope heading your way, don’t make eye contact.
Dr. Drew Pinsky
INTRODUCTION
I usually skip the introduction to a book if it doesn’t immediately strike me as important. So I will tell you now, read this introduction. I will assume that you read like I read, plodding and without much patience.
There is no letdown greater for me than reading a bio of a degenerate rocker or an otherwise renowned derelict with sordid stories only to have them sober up two-thirds of the way through the book. You know that the rest is gonna suck but you’ve invested so much time, you know that you have to see it through.
At no point in this book will I find God, go on the straight and narrow or find any higher purpose. You will always find yourself better than me even when I am calling you a nugget of shit. There is no happy ending. There is no ending at all. I’m not dead, at least at this writing.
I also hate reading memoirs when you have to wade through someone’s childhood years and their parents in order to get to the good parts. If their childhood was compelling, they would have written the book back then. If the parents were of any interest, they’d have a book of their own. Fortunately I got all of that detritus of being raised out in my first book. I hope you enjoyed it.
Like the first book, I use a lot of fancy words when I can. This has nothing to do with a strong vocabulary. I get excited when I find a big word on my own but mostly I use a thesaurus. It feels like cheating but I pride myself on making decent choices in the absence of actual knowledge.
Here are some of the main people who will come in and out of these stories.
Amy Bingaman, known in the book as “Bingo,” is my gal pal of nearly twelve years as of this writing. She has a history of mental illness and being adorable. She is the soul and the muse of the operation. And occasionally the monkey wrench in the gears when her brain goes bad on her.
Greg Chaille, only known as “Chaille” anywhere in the civilized world, is my “tour manager.” He is known as my tour manager as that is his one job. Managing the tours. He also produces, edits and co-hosts the podcasts, runs the website, and packages and ships the merchandise from said website as well as selling it on the road. He also drives the van, sets the GPS for the next town’s gig and hotel, gets us breakfast and makes sure that the gig has sound, greenroom booze and that we get paid afterwards when we are too drunk to see. He also finds the shortest route from the greenroom to where I can smoke and makes sure I have a stool onstage for my drink. He mules our drugs in his anus even though they are usually over-the-counter drugs for heartburn or seasonal allergies. At home, he is currently fixing the Christmas lights after making me fish sticks. His hobbies include gassing up the cars, picking up my friends from the airport and running sound and lights for comics and bands that perform at parties at the house. He will even fill in on most instruments on any given jam band playing at the house, so long as he can get time away from his one job. Tour manager.
Brian Hennigan, known mostly as “Hennigan” in this book, is a filthy, uncut Scotsman. He is my “business manager” who manages business things like book deals, television appearances and booking tour dates. That means he forces us to make money. He is evidently sometimes a prick about this with booking agents and in other business dealings, but we try to ignore his barbarous and impolite tactics. Too often, on the road Chaille has been confused for Hennigan because of the common “manager” title. Hennigan has the benefit of being able to hide his fancy-lad Scottish accent when he only has to communicate his boorish vitriol via email. Then when Chaille shows up at the gig, the local booker assumes Chaille was the asshole who the booker had to deal with in order to hire me. Chaille gets all the dirty looks that Hennigan has earned. Chaille doesn’t do any of the bookings. He’s only got one job and that keeps him busy enough.
Andy Andrist and Matt Becker are two of my oldest and closest friends and two of the funniest people who have ever walked this planet. For that reason they show up in the book quite a bit.
Save for Bingo who runs ten years behind, we are all around the fifty-year mark and we have all been together for many a moon. We probably should have stopped being fuckups a long time ago. That doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon.
This book is a journey of a life in the breakdown lane on the highway of fame, a motivational opus for those who strive for the margins. A highlight reel of a life on the stage when most people were looking at a bar fight in a different direction. Often enough, that worked in my favor. Everyone wants to be in the spotlight until it’s their own prison break.
Mitch Hedberg had a joke where he said, “As a comedian, I always get into situations where I’m auditioning for movies and sitcoms, you know? As a comedian, they want you to do things besides comedy. They say, ‘All right, you’re a comedian, can you write? Write us a script. Act in this sitcom.’ They want me to do shit that is related to comedy, but it’s not comedy, man. It’s not fair, you know? It’s as though if I was a cook, and I worked my ass off to become a really good cook, and they said, ‘All right, you’re a cook… can you farm?’”
The joke is that it isn’t a joke at all. It’s the truth with a fantastic analogy. People in the industry look at stand-up as an audition to a shittier platform. If you can do well in a pure, unadulterated and raw format of your own making, then you might be given a chance to be elevated to a place where you can be diluted and neutered for mass appeal. And be made famous.
Like Hedberg, I never wanted to “farm.” In my younger years, I thought that was what I should aspire to if only because they told me so. I’m a cook and I’ve had a lot of fun doing just that. In a sense, this book is akin to Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential. The joys and pitfalls of just being a fucked-up cook. The greasy-spoon breakfast to another comedian’s Zagat-rated four-course meal.
The stories may seem to weave off topic but that is how my head works. Stay with me. They’ll get back to the point eventually. Or maybe not. The tone of my remembrances might also ping-pong from positive to negative. That is because I am a drunk. “I will kill you” can turn into “I love you, man!” over the course of a few salty dogs.
Another thing. These pricks at this book-writing company correct me too often. I like to write stories in the present tense, the same as you’d tell them in a bar if you can tell a story worth a fuck. It makes the listener imagine that he or she is with you as you go. Instead of “So now I’m looking down the barrel of the gun” they want it written “I looked down the barrel,” etc. And you never get to feel like you are going to die. For some reason I listen to them. I bet I’m right but I don’t have the time nor tenure to argue. If you find some old story written in the present tense, that’s one I slipped past the censors.
If you are the fan who’s watched every special, bootleg and YouTube clip, listened to every podcast and read every interview, you’ll recognize some of these stories. Fortunately most of you are barflies and reprobates who won’t remember until you read them again. And if you have your glove that deep in my ass as a fan, you couldn’t live without this book anyway.
If you’re like most people and have never heard of me, this book should give you some insight as to why you’ve never heard of me.
FUNNY FOR NOTHING
I hope that the president gets assassinated. Not for political reasons. You just have to understand that I drink every single day. And it would be nice if for once I could remember where I was on that one day.
—Norm Wilkerson, Unknown Comedian
Early in my career, a young stand-up comic, Josh Perlman who I knew at the time in Los Angeles, came back from Las Vegas after playing a show at the Rio Hotel. He told me that he’d been lounging late night at the casino bar talking to a prostitute playing video poker next to him. He was interested but he was new to the game, shy and didn’t know how to broach the subject. Instead he just continued to make small talk for an eternity, hoping she’d go for the close. Eventually she asked Josh if he’d like to take her to his room for “a dance.” He asked how much it would cost and she told him that it would be two hundred dollars. He hemmed and hawed and finally asked her what she meant by “a dance,” specifically what he could expect for his money. She paused suspiciously.
“Um… are you a cop?”
He laughed and said, “No, no! I’m a comedian!”
She lit up. “Really?! Do you know Doug Stanhope???”
This is not fame.
“Known in certain circles” would be a more accurate way to put it. This gal in Vegas didn’t know me from my body of work and I’d bet that I never found out if she could actually danc
e. That was decades ago but the times haven’t changed. The circle might have widened but the audience has remained within the loop. All for one, one for nothing. Or whatever.
So long as the right people remember you.
Before I wasn’t famous, I was completely unknown. It was so much more fun. When I started doing open-mic comedy, I was only concerned with being famous for that one night after I got off the stage. I wanted someone to tell me that I was great. I wanted the owner to invite me back. I wanted some dude to buy me a drink and some girl to give me a second look. Karaoke famous.
I achieved those goals in record time. Those were the early days of 1990 Las Vegas. I did stand-up as a lark and eventually when a local stripper wanted me to beat her senseless while I fucked her poorly, I considered myself to have been “discovered.” As a twenty-three-year-old, in my eyes I’d made it to the big time.
For most of my twenty-five-plus years since in this business, the stage was just the pivot pole, the jumping-off point. The excuse. The baked potato. You would never eat a plain baked potato. You eat it for all of the great things that go along with it. But you still need it as a platform. Eating butter and sour cream all by themselves makes you look like a glutton.
I remember an early open mic in a casino where, after barreling through my set of mostly jerk-off jokes, a Down syndrome man-child ran up on the stage, grabbed the mic and started yelling at me.
“You are evil, Doug! The things you say are EVIL!”
Now imagine that voice in a tone that would be considered mocking or insensitive if I said it aloud, and you’ve nailed it. I was barely three steps from exiting the stage and had no idea what to do, nor did the crowd. Eventually someone gently guided him back to his seat, but I never lived it down with the local comedians for the next six months that I stayed in Vegas. Anything that I said off-color was followed by comic buddies mimicking him.
“You ah eeeevel, Doug! Da theengs you say ah EEEvel!”
This Is Not Fame Page 1